


The One, Two, and Three Goes

by ant5b



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Legend of the Three Caballeros (Cartoon)
Genre: AU, Character Study, Elements from all three shows, Mostly Legend of the Three Caballeros-verse, Post-Canon, Post-Episode s01e03 Pyramid-Life Crisis, Post-Episode s01e06 Stonehenge Your Bets, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: When José Carioca first meets Donald Duck, he smells like smoke and ash.





	The One, Two, and Three Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, here I am, writing fic for LotC months after its airing
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://mighty-ant.tumblr.com/)  
> Check out my DuckTales podcast [here](http://amorespatospodcast.libsyn.com/)
> 
> This fic has fanart now!  
> Check it out! [here](http://max-theartblog.tumblr.com/post/180146809818/donald-realizing-he-wont-receive-sympathy-from/)

  
  


Upon returning from Egypt, Donald sits down on the first available surface and falls asleep almost immediately. 

Fatigue weighs heavily on  José as well, but the speed at which Donald becomes dead to the world astounds him. He hadn’t thought the duck ever tired, based on his level of ire and energy on their last two adventures. 

Xandra stretches, though she doesn’t look particularly tired.  José supposes that there must be some benefits to being a immortal goddess. 

“Donald’s definitely got the right idea,” Xandra says. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you these last few days, Cabs.”

“Tell me about it,” Panchito murmurs, nearly walking into a bookcase because he’s closed his eyes out of exhaustion. “Who would’ve thought fighting a robot on the moon could be so tiring?”

“Don’t forget the mummies,”  José adds distractedly. He’s paying more attention to Donald, who’s fallen asleep on one of the couches they’d only half cleared of junk before Felldrake’s bat-rat-monkey-donkey thing snatched him off the ground just last night. As a result, Donald is left to slump over a pile of antiques, ranging from intricately carved wooden totems to massive old books. 

Despite how uncomfortable it must be, Donald doesn’t stir. In fact, he even snores a little bit. 

Their front door creaks open then, and is hurriedly caught before it can smack onto the floor again. 

“Oh, you’re back,” the triplet in purple says as she and her sisters slip through the doorway. Behind them, José can make out the glowing haze of dusk. 

“We bought groceries for you guys,” the triplet in orange says. 

José’s a little embarrassed to admit that he can’t quite tell them apart yet. 

“Thanks, girls,” Xandra replies a little distractedly, thumbing through a massive book she’s pulled out of the pile Donald’s slumped against. 

“You’re lifesavers,” Panchito says, as he collapses bonelessly into an armchair that’s actually empty. 

José glances around for their cabana’s caretaker. “Ah, Ari?” 

The aracuan pops up beside him with blankets and pillows at the ready, and tends to Panchito first. He slips a pillow beneath the rooster’s head and tucks one of the blankets around him. Then, in a movement almost too quick to catch, Ari shoves all of the junk Donald’s leaning against into a sack he pulls out of nowhere.

José catches Donald before he can fall over completely, and Ari places a pillow on the now-empty couch cushion. When Donald doesn’t stir, José carefully lays him back down. 

Ari shakes open another blanket and throws it over Donald, tucking it around him before vanishing back to wherever he came from with a chatter and salute. 

“Thank you, my friend,” José calls after him quietly, in an effort to avoid waking his sleeping companions. 

By now April, May, and June have migrated to the ramshackle kitchen, storing the groceries they bought. 

José can barely make out their muted dialogue. And tired though he may be, he joins them in the kitchen. 

“Thank you for going shopping for us,” José tells them after he’s been roped into putting groceries away too. The girls bought enough food to feed a small army, and are finding creative ways to store most of it. “I have to admit, with so much going on, food was the last thing on my mind.”

The triplet in yellow, April maybe, rolls her eyes in the companionable way only teenagers can manage. “Yeah, we figured as much. Mummy bat monsters, ancient warrior goddesses—you guys have your hands full.”

José chuckles as he puts a gallon of orange juice in the fridge. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t what I expected when I learned I had a secret inheritance.”

“What even happened after you all left for Egypt?” asks the girl in purple. “And what was up with that spaceship stuff?”

“Well, actually we were only in Egypt for a little while,” José explains, and the girls all pause what they’re doing to listen. “We followed Felldrake inside a pyramid that actually turned out to be a spaceship. We launched it into space by accident, and ended up on the moon where we fought the robot army that Felldrake wanted to use to take over the world.”

The girl in orange—May? Maybe June—laughs in response, while the one in yellow sighs, and the girl in purple shakes her head with a deadpan expression. 

“Why do I even bother?” the latter replies. 

“Was it dangerous?” the duckling in yellow asks as she hands José a cereal box. 

José nods. “Oh, yes, very. We wouldn’t have made it back in one piece without your Uncle Donald! Because of him, we were able to fight Felldrake to a standstill.”

The girls all fall quiet around him, and avoid looking in his direction. Before José can ask what he did wrong, the duckling in orange speaks up. 

“Donald...isn’t our uncle,” she says, to José’s surprise. 

What with how familiar their interactions with Donald were, he had only assumed they were family. 

“He was dating our Aunt Daisy for a while,” the duckling in purple continues. She fiddles with a box of granola bars rather than look up at José. 

“‘Was’?” José repeats casually. 

The triplet in yellow shrugs with a slightly guilty expression. “They broke up yesterday.”

“Aunt Daisy says he a rotten, no-good lair,” says the triplet in orange, and by her intonation it’s clear that she’s learned this by rote. Her sisters nod along, not seeming to give the words much thought. 

José turns away to stack cans in a cupboard, and so they don’t see his expression of disbelief and dawning understanding.

“ _ Que coisa,” _ he says under his breath. 

To be dumped was painful enough, but for one’s partner to do that to them on their  _ birthday _ ? It was no wonder Donald had been so quick to anger in the few days they’d known him. 

But he can’t help thinking about what April, May, and June had said, and how at odds it was with their eagerness to help them, especially Donald. 

José and the girls resume stocking the kitchen in silence for a few moments, until at last everything has been put away and Ari came by to swallow the paper grocery bags whole. 

“Girls,” José calls them over before they can wander too far, “before you go, I have a question.”

“Shoot,” he thinks it’s April who responds. 

“Does your aunt know where you are?” he asks, curious as to whether his hunch was correct. 

“Ummmm,” all three girls say, glancing at each other uncertainly. 

“We told her that we were helping a friend move,” the one in orange says haltingly. 

José nods thoughtfully. “She doesn’t know you’re helping Donald?”

“No…” she replies hesitantly. 

“We were going to tell her!” her sister in yellow assures him. 

“I’m sure you will,” José replies with a smile. “Get home safe, girls. And thank you again for the groceries!”  

They wave goodbye, and begin to head for the front door. But a thought occurs to him then, and he’s surprised at himself for not thinking of it earlier. 

“Oh, one more thing,” he calls after them, as loudly as he dares, considering his sleeping companions. “How were you able to afford all of this food in the first place? We’ll be happy to pay you back.”

The duckling in purple, he’s certain it’s May, waves his offer away. “No, it’s fine, Mr. Carioca. Donald said we could take whatever we needed from his share of the treasure.”

“We just used some of that for the groceries,” says the duckling in orange. “He likes healthy stuff, so don’t blame us for all the vegetables.” 

José chuckles, despite feeling like he’s been bowled over. “I won’t. Thanks again, girls.” 

“Good night!” they reply, slipping past the cabana’s propped up front door. 

José closes his aching eyes and rubs them as he fights a yawn. He wonders if Ari has more pillows and blankets stowed away somewhere. His gaze wanders over the cabana’s cramped living room. 

Panchito sleeps with his limbs sprawled in different directions, his blanket covering none of them. 

Donald’s curled up on his side, his expression placid for once. Without his usual scowl and furrowed brow, without the exhaustion José hadn’t realized was dogging him, Donald looks years younger. 

It’s a startling revelation. And as José claims the last free armchair, he wonders what other surprises his companion has in store. 

  
  


When  José Carioca first meets Donald Duck, he smells like smoke and ash. 

José notices it before all else. Before the grousing and complaining, before the irate expression. Donald’s standoffishness is all secondary.

The smell lingers over Donald like a pall, the palpable sensation of loss that feels ominous to associate with a person. It reminds José of the stench left behind when a fire ravaged the favelas of his childhood, flames going unchecked for blocks and reducing everything he’d known to cinders. 

Donald doesn’t act like a man who’s lost everything. 

And José does mean  _ everything _ . It’s only in the days that follow that he sees Donald’s charred, sticker-covered suitcase, sees that its contents only include another change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a bundle of photographs. 

Donald is quick to hide the suitcase from view, but not quick enough. He stows it in the room that he chose as his own on the underground level of the cabana. 

But José notices it all the same. Some brief online research leads him to a small news article, nothing more than a blurb really, detailing a fire that destroyed someone’s home in the neighboring city of Duckburg on the thirteenth of March. 

Donald’s birthday. 

For days, José agonizes over how to bring it up. He’s only known Donald briefly, but he’s always been good at reading people. He trusts Donald. He wants to offer his support. But the last thing José wants to do is come off as patronizing. And at this point, he knows that patronizing is the only way Donald would interpret his attempts.  

So instead José observes, tries to better understand Donald. If they’re to be a team, they need to know each other after all. And with the knowledge José has, one might think that wouldn’t be so difficult. 

But Donald seems to make a game of making things difficult. 

Donald is abrasive and snappish at first, and always on the defensive. He’s visibly wary when José and Panchito make obvious overtures of friendship, and bristles at every compliment, like it’s backhanded somehow. 

When Xandra isn’t insisting they train for the battles to come, Donald retreats to the hammock he set up between some trees on the front lawn. 

José will check on him every so often, and finds that Donald is rarely sleeping. Usually he’ll be staring up at nothing, expression strangely blank. Other times, he’ll look through a handful of photographs, and won’t talk much for the rest of the day. 

  
  


José wanders by the kitchen some nights, for a snack or a smoke. More often than not, he finds Donald sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, and trembling hands. 

José doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. They’re still basically strangers, thrown into peril beyond imagining, the fate of the world placed implausibly in their hands time and time again. 

They all find ways to cope with the great responsibility, the burden, they’ve been given. 

José smokes more. Panchito knits (they’ll have plenty of scarves and blankets by the time winter rolls around). But Donald just...stops sleeping. 

It’s obvious by the bags under his eyes, growing progressively darker. The way his temper flares, random and violent. He snaps at them, blames them, insults them. He shoves Panchito’s face in the dirt. 

If José didn’t know any better, he’d think Donald just couldn’t stand them. 

But Donald leaves his date with Daisy to save them, knowingly ruining his chances with her. He treats April, May, and June like family, nags them about their homework and lets them  take whatever they want from his half of the treasure. He starts popcorn wars, he teaches them threesies. He cries when they hug him. 

José remembers the smell of smoke and ash. 

And he starts to think that Donald acts like this not because he hates them, but maybe because he hates himself.

 

Panchito notices too. 

He’s an interesting one, Panchito Pistoles. His easy going nature masks a sharp wit and casual brawn, and an emotional intelligence that José could never match. Of the three of them, he’s the one Xandra turns to for advice, and a listening ear. 

This comes in handy because after their stint in Goblin Jail, Donald disappears. 

As in the aftermath of most of their adventures, the only thing they want to do when they get back home is sleep for a week. Even Xandra will retreat to her own room, though whether she needs sleep at all remains a mystery to them. 

José and Panchito go down to their rooms and are out like a light in seconds. They leave Donald in the living room watching some old black and white movie, with the half hearted promise that he’ll go to bed soon. 

But when Panchito rises at dawn to get a drink of water, he finds Donald’s bedroom empty and his old 313 missing from the curb. 

José wakes up to see Panchito’s worried expression, which is never a good sign. 

“Donald’s gone,” he says, looking disheveled but determined. “I’m gonna look for him.  _ No deber _ _ ía _ _ estar solo.” _

They’re both still filthy and bruised, and the stench of Goblin Jail isn’t leaving their feathers anytime soon. They’ve slept perhaps a collective four hours. 

José all but leaps out of bed, tugging on his coat as he herds Panchito out the door. “Well then, what’re we waiting for?”

In turns out that the luck of the gods is on their side, since Donald is still wearing his amulet. Among the atlas’ many other abilities, it can also pinpoint the magical signatures of their ancestors’ amulets. On the map, José and Panchito’s show up in the cabana. But Donald’s is somewhere in Duckburg, not New Quackmore at all. 

Without a car, and because the buses aren’t running yet, they decide to leg it all the way to Duckburg. With Xandra’s bookmark in place, they can take the atlas with them without having to worry about accidentaly trapping her in it. The atlas itself serves as a bizarre GPS, leading them down the dimly lit, ostentatious streets of New Quackmore until they reach the brighter lights of Duckburg proper. 

However, Duckburg’s skyscrapers and Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin remain in the distance, looming impressive and surreal, as they venture further into one of the city’s suburbs. 

Through much trial and error (the atlas isn’t exactly spouting directions at them, after all),  they come within a block of Donald’s amulet. 

José’s been haphazardly directing them with the atlas, so it’s Panchito who notices Donald’s Runabout parked halfway on the curb. They’re on a quiet street, lit only by the glow of a few streetlights. Even so, once they find the 313, Donald becomes easy to spot. 

He’s sitting, hunched on the curb on the opposite side of the street, the light from the nearest streetlamp making his feathers shine silver. 

“Donal’!” Panchito cries, just loud enough to be heard across the street. 

They see Donald jerk his head up, stiffening in shock. 

Though that does little to stop Panchito from hurrying over to him, his smile wide and relieved. 

José hangs back for only a moment, actually taking in the place Donald had chosen to run to. By all appearances, he’s sitting on the curb in front of an empty dirt lot, run through with the massive tire tracks of construction vehicles. There’s a sizable pile of splintered wooden beams, bricks and tiles, all gathered to one side. The remains of the house that stood before, José presumes. . 

“What— _ guys?”  _ Donald is sputtering when José joins them. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, and it looks like he doesn’t believe they’re actually there. “What-what’re you doing here?”

Panchito is squeezing Donald’s shoulder, like he thinks he’ll disappear again if they’re not in physical contact. He crouches down beside Donald, his smile tinged with incredulity. 

“What’re we  _ doing  _ here? Donal’, there’s an evil wizard after us, and you vanished in the middle of the night! Did you think we wouldn’t be worried?”

“I…” Donald says, lifting his hands helplessly. His gaze moves past Panchito’s imploring one, and lands on the atlas tucked under José’s arm. “Is Xandra here too?” he asks, “is that how you found me?”

José chuckles, sitting down on the curb on Donald’s other side. “She actually doesn’t know we’re out here,” he admits, “we hoped that you’d just left without leaving a note, not... _ como se diz... _ not something worse.”

Donald’s eyes get impossibly wider. “Don’t tell me you walked here,” he says, dismayed. 

Panchito wraps his arm around Donald’s shoulders. “We had a nice stroll under the moonlight! Well, more of a panicked jog, but what’s the difference?”

Donald shrugs off Panchito’s arm, looking ill. “You didn’t have to come. You-you shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry I made you worry, but you should just...go home. I’m fine.”

Panchito and José exchange a tense glance over Donald’s head. 

“No offense,” Panchito starts gently, “but sitting on front of a demolished house at night doesn’t seem...fine.”

Donald explodes then, and it’s like his usual tantrums but completely different at the same time. 

“Why do you _ care?” _ he demands, jerking his hands in the air. He throws himself to his feet, arms splayed at his sides and he looks so angry and so lost. “Why do you care about anything I do? I’ve been a jerk to you two this entire time, can’t you get a hint? I don’t want to be your friend! I’m  _ fine  _ on my own. Homeless, unemployed, and single, just like you said!”

There are tears in Donald’s eyes, despite his furious bluster, and they shine in the light of the overhead streetlight. 

José and Panchito look at each other only briefly, already knowing what they need to do. As one, they stand up off the curb and engulf Donald in a tight hug. 

Donald stiffens in their arms, chest heaving. 

“I’m sorry I joked about what happened to you,” Panchito says. 

Donald tentatively brings his arms around to hug them back. “I’m sorry I shoved your face in the dirt,” he murmurs. “I’m just...I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been under a lot of strain, Donal’,” José says, as both he and Panchito pull back. “Stop pushing us away. Let us help.”

Donald laughs wetly, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay.”

They herd him back to the curb, keeping close but trying not to crowd him. 

“So,” Panchito starts, “of all places, why did you come here?”

Donald looks over his shoulder at the dirt lot, and only José is privy to his expression, frustrated and sad in equal measure. All at once, José remembers the smell of smoke and ash, and a stone falls to the pit of his stomach. 

“This used to be my house,” Donald admits, turning back around to stare at his hands in his lap. “I got back from the Navy a few months ago. I was trying to get back in the swing of things, y’know? I got the house, the job, Daisy and I were trying to make things work. I thought I could do it without anyone’s help. I wanted to prove I could.”

Donald’s head falls into his hands, and he closes his eyes. “My house burned down after a month. A  _ month. _ What kind of idiot can’t keep his house from catching fire?”

José carefully reaches out to rub Donald’s back. “My house burned down, too,” he remarks, and both Donald and Panchito look up at him in shock. It takes him a second to register their expressions of horror, and he laughs when he does, raising his hands and shaking his head. “ _ Perdão, perdão, _ not-not recently. When I was  _ o menino,  _ little-little boy.”

Donald wrings his hands together. “What did you do?” he asks. 

José shrugs, leaning back a little on outstretched arms. “It was just me and my mother, but our friends opened their homes to us. They fed and clothed us until we got back on our feet.”

José tries to meet Donald’s gaze. “It’s not weakness to admit when you need help.”

Donald doesn’t respond, looking back over his shoulder at the remains of his home. 

Now that his eyes have gotten more adjusted to the half-dark, José can more clearly make out the charred wood in the large pile. The stench of burnt things, though faint, reaches him on the breeze. 

“Donal’,” Panchito says, as the silence grows, “How do you feel about living in the cabana?”

Donald snorts, sporting the first genuine smile they’ve seen since Goblin Town. “How do I feel about having to deal with a flooded basement and spiders the size of my head?”

“Hey, we drained the basement,” Panchito retorts on a laugh. 

“And Ari took care of the spiders,” José adds. 

“Yeah, by  _ eating  _ them,” Donald mutters. 

“What I  _ meant  _ was,” Panchito says, trying to bring the conversation back on track, “you couldn't have expected any of this. Or any of us, really. You’d just lost so much, and suddenly there’s magic and evil sorcerers and the fate of the world being dropped on your doorstep, and... I was wondering what made you decide to stay. With us.”

“You could’ve taken Sheldgoose’s money,” José points out, “split it between the three of us and gone on your way.” 

Donald’s smile is wry, and he jerks a thumb back at the dirt lot behind them. “I didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.”

“With a third of a million dollars you would have,” José retorts. 

Donald just laughs. “Honestly, I was less worried about the danger and world-saving than I was about you guys.”

When José and Panchito look back at him, not comprehending, a flush creeps its way up Donald’s face. 

“It’s been a while since I...y’know...had friends.”

“We’re friends?” Panchito asks, looking ecstatic. 

“If you-if you want to be,” Donald stammers, “I know I’ve been—”

But Panchito’s already up, and dragging Donald with him in a hug as he spins around. “ _ Escuchaste eso, José? _ We’re friends!”

“I did, Pancho,” José replied with a smile, standing back up too. 

Panchito keeps one arm wrapped around Donald’s shoulders, and waves with his free hand for José to join them. 

José slips under Donald’s arm with a laugh, and the duck turns to look at him, startled. 

“I consider you a friend too, Donal’,” he confides, Donald’s warmth at his side easing some of the dread they’d felt at his disappearance.  

Donald has to blink back tears, and his laughter is more than a little incredulous. “That’s-that’s great. Thank you.”

José and Panchito both grin, patting Donald on the back. 

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Panchito says. 

They begin to amble over to Donald’s 313, and Donald says, so softly they almost don’t hear him, “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Often, Donald will ask them why they care about their supposed destiny so much. Why don’t he and Panchito take their share of the original Caballeros’ treasure and go out to explore the wide, wide world, rather than sit around a dilapidated cabana. 

They’re making dinner the next time he asks, all of them squished into the kitchen to help. 

Panchito laughs and says, “I’m already seeing the wide, wide world! Who wants to pay for airfare when you’ve got a magic book?”

“Trying to get rid of us already?” José asks, lightly jostling Donald, who squawks and almost drops the chayote he’s rinsing off in the sink. 

They may not have known each other for long, but José has already grown rather fond of his strange new family. And as for him, he has no one else and nowhere else to go to, really. His funds, before receiving the inheritance, were a mere pittance, scammed away by false charities and spent on the bus and plane tickets it took to leave Rio. 

He knows Panchito left behind a large family in Juarez; he talks to them over video chat at least once a week, a plethora of aunts and nieces and nephews who are always overjoyed to see him. Panchito’s been sending them money, and always asks to see the repairs they’ve done to the ranch, and oohs and ahhs at the new toys the children are now able to afford. 

But, like him, Panchito stays. Despite the danger, and the danger is  _ ridiculously  _ insurmountable. 

Donald stays too. 

Despite how often he complains of the risks they take, the monsters they face, he stays. Not only that, but he astounds José with how adept he is in the most perilous of situations, when he isn’t distracted by Daisy and his temper doesn’t get in the way. Donald is strong and fast, and José watched him wrestle a man three times his size to the ground when the man tried to mug them as they scoured darkened Parisian alleys for a hidden entrance to an ancient Parisii tomb.  

But he doesn’t talk about family. The only relative of his that José knows about is Clinton Coot, who’s decades dead, and no one else. 

Donald doesn’t talk about his life at all, really. José knows he lived alone, that he worked at a barber shop. His sailor suits speak of a past life following orders, of regiment and danger. 

José wonders if Donald is alone, like him. Or if he left his family behind in Duckburg along with the smouldering ruins of his home. 

  
  
  
  


It’s weeks later, Sheldgoose is defeated and New Quackmore is rebuilding. 

For now, Donald is still the institute's Acting President, though they have no idea for how much longer he’ll be allowed to keep the position. The snobbish members of his board of directors are bloodthirsty, and are bound to organize an election once things have calmed down. 

Though Sheldgoose Manor is open to them (for now), and especially to Donald, they all elect to stay in the cabana. They’ve fixed the place up in the intervening weeks, replaced old, decaying boards and mopped and shined, clearing out decades’ worth of clutter with a number of yard sales. By now, it’s become home. 

It’s a rare calm day, the sky pristine and blue and their schedule clear. José is reclining on the porch in one of the wicker chairs they uncovered in the cabana during one of their last junk sweeps, with a glass of iced tea and a cigar in hand. 

Last he heard, Panchito was going to show Xandra how Webflix worked, and Donald had gone to take a nap. They were planning on catching a movie later. 

A perfect day. 

Until José hears the rumble of an approaching engine, and the slam of a car door. 

He opens his eyes to see a handsomely dressed goose marching away from a taxi idling on their curb. His head feathers are perfectly curly and his green suit is crisp, but his expression is furious enough to send even the bravest of souls running. 

_ “Donald Duck!” _ the stranger wastes no time in barking, once his feet are on the path leading to the front door. “Donald Duck, I swear, if you don’t come outside in the next ten seconds, I will tell  _ everyone  _ where you are!”

José feels the need to intervene, reaching for a sword that he doesn’t have. “I’m sorry,” he calls to the stranger, who had not ceased his approach. “I don’t think Donal’s here. I can take a message?”

As if to immediately refute his claim, a crash resounds inside the cabana that could’ve been heard all the way over in St. Canard. 

The front door swings open (but doesn’t fall over this time) to reveal a wild-eyed, bedraggled Donald. The stranger stops a few feet from the porch steps, folds his arms over his chest and glares up at him.

José watches Donald take in the stranger, his panicked expression dwindling into something vaguely sickly. 

Donald takes the porch steps one at a time, his arms stiff at his sides and his shoulders slumped. He ends up about a foot away from the stranger, staring at nothing in the grass. 

“Hey, Gladstone,” he mutters, so quietly José almost doesn’t catch it. 

Donald still isn’t looking up, but José watches as Gladstone’s stony expression cracks. The palpable relief and joy on the goose’s face startles José, seconded only by Gladstone uncrossing his arms and wrapping them around Donald in a fierce hug. 

“‘Hey, Gladstone’?” he repeats, incredulous, as Donald briefly sputters in his arms. “You disappear off the face of the earth for three months, and all I get is a ‘hey, Gladstone’?”

José hates to eavesdrop, but at this rate trying to sneak back inside the house would almost be worse than staying on the porch. He compensates by slumping in his seat, and trying to make himself appear invisible. 

“Gladstone—” Donald is trying to say, as the goose sets him back down.

“Shut up,” Gladstone says, moving his hands up to clutch at Donald’s shoulders. He’s glaring again, but he’s also looking Donald over from head to toe. “I’m making sure you still have all your limbs attached. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“You’re overreacting,” Donald says, pushing Gladstone’s hand out of his face. 

“Oh,  _ I’m  _ overreacting?” Gladstone demands, finally releasing Donald to throw his hands in the air. “Sure, ‘cause I’m the one who decided to hide from his family! But because _ I  _ was worried about you, I’m the one overreacting.”

Donald’s crossed his arms over his chest, but at Gladstone’s words his defensive posture slackens. “I thought worrying wasn’t your thing?” he asks. 

“It’s not,” Gladstone snaps, “but it’s your boys’ thing. Everytime I see them, they ask if I’ve seen you, if my luck could help me find you. It’s gotten to the point where they don’t even wanna go on adventures with Scrooge on the off-chance that you’ll stop by while they’re gone.”

“I’ve been calling them,” Donald mutters, but he looks hunted. 

“And never mentioning where you were,” Gladstone says, but there no heat behind his words anymore. “When you were discharged we thought we finally had you back, cuz. And after you lost your house, and you said you wanted to get out of Duckburg, I got that.”

He extends his arms to encompass the cabana, perhaps New Quackmore as a whole, “But you’ve been out here the entire time, what, risking your life? Fighting a wizard or something?” 

“How’d you find me?” Donald asks, only a little sullenly. 

Gladstone glares again. “Some New Quackmore elites graced us with their presence at my club. The purple vortex from last month is the new small talk, and they mentioned that the guy who helped stop it was their new Acting President. A duck with a temper, always wearing a sailor suit? It rang a few bells.”

Donald kicks at a loose stone in the path. “Do Scrooge and the boys know?” He asks, very quietly, 

“No,” Gladstone huffs, crossing his arms again. “I figured you should be the one to tell them you’ve been hiding out the next town over with a bunch of strangers.” He waves at José, who’s been trying and failing to become one with the porch’s wood grain. 

“Sorry for not introducing myself earlier,” he calls over, smiling charmingly and completely unrepentant, “Gladstone Gander. I’m Double D’s cousin.” 

José rises from the porch with as much grace as he can manage, given the circumstances. He descends the steps and approaches Gladstone to shake his hand. 

“José Carioca,” he says politely, glancing briefly at Donald, who has closed his eyes and seems to be pretending he’s anywhere else. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Joe,” Gladstone says, sticking his hands in his pockets, “my cousin can be a tight-beaked son of a gun at the best of times. Can I trust you to tell me what he’s been up to these last few months?” 

Donald sighs loudly, but doesn’t open his eyes. 

José smiles. “I trust you have stories about Donald to exchange?” He replies.

“We grew up together, so you better believe it,” Gladstone laughs. 

José gestures back at the front door. “Please, come inside, Gladstone. The rest of our friends would be happy to meet you.”

“And I’d be happy to meet  _ them,” _ Gladstone replies cheerfully, in the face of Donald’s now baleful expression. “But I wanted to ask you a few questions first, J-man, make sure Donnie here hasn’t been giving you too much trouble.”

Gladstone’s tone never stops being casual, lilting and almost bored. But José recognizes the glimmer of worry in his expression, in the furrow of his brow, because he’s seen it enough times in his face, usually in regards to Donald. 

“Donal’,” José starts to say. 

Donald turns to him with an imploring expression, clearly begging José to put him out of his misery. 

José only feels a little bad when he says, “Can you tell Panchito and Xandra we’ll be having company? We don’t want a repeat of the mailman incident.”

Donald gapes at him in betrayal, while Gladstone snorts. 

“Mailman incident?” he repeats, “Do I even want to know?”

“One of our friends can be a little trigger happy around people she doesn’t know,” José explains tentatively. 

Donald, realizing he won’t receive sympathy from either of them, starts to stomp over to the front door. As he passes by José, the parrot reaches out briefly to squeeze his hand, a wordless apology. 

Gladstone catches the movement, but doesn’t say anything. 

Donald continues the rest of the way to the cabana, not quite as irritated as he was before, and closes the door behind him. Almost immediately, there’s another series of crashes from inside the cabana, predictably followed by Donald’s furious yelling. 

Ari must’ve been stacking books by the front door again. His reasoning was that it made for better dusting, but José just thinks he does it to annoy Donald specifically. 

The moment Donald is gone, Gladstone turns to face José with a somber expression, smarmy persona nowhere in sight. “Is he actually okay?” he asks seriously. 

Though José expected to be questioned, he’s still surprised by the intensity of the goose’s concern. 

“I think so,” he answers carefully. He’s still thrown by Gladstone’s arrival, by his mere existence. The way Gladstone talked, Donald had a whole family waiting for him, worried about him. Why he would stay at the cabana…

“It was, I think, rough for him at the beginning,” José explains, “but he’s strong. We make a good team.” He chuckles, “I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

Some of the tension ebbs from Gladstone’s shoulders, and his sharp beak curls in a small smile. “Yeah, my cousin always would do anything for family.”

José starts a little at that. He tries to ignore the kernel of warmth that Gladstone’s words produce by feigning ignorance, but Gladstone just laughs again. 

“Just you wait, after this I’m dragging him to our Uncle Scrooge’s whether he wants to or not. That’ll be a show.”

It took hearing it thrice for José’s brain to connect the dots, and when it does his mouth goes a little try. “And that wouldn’t be...Scrooge McDuck, would it?” 

Gladstone grins. “Welcome to the family.” 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
